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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26403670">Eight on a Sunday</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there'>out_there</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Banking, Bucky Barnes &amp; Clint Barton Friendship, Classic Cars, Don't Touch Lola (Agents of SHIELD), House Flipping, M/M, Renovations</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:26:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,701</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26403670</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil doesn't see the contractor during the next week. It's only the growing pile of rubbish outside -- wooden edges and old drywall and on Thursday, the bathtub and toilet -- that proves the work is continuing. It makes the neighborhood look like a garbage dump but thankfully an empty dumpster gets delivered on Saturday. </p><p>Phil hears the noise of the delivery truck backing up and goes outside to investigate. Clint's standing outside, directing the driver. In deference to the heat, he's wearing khaki shorts and a lavender wifebeater. Phil tries not to stare at his strong shoulders.</p><p>He fails, but he tries.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clint Barton/Phil Coulson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>143</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>2020 ClintCoulson Remix: Quarantine Edition</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Eight on a Sunday</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/uofmdragon/gifts">uofmdragon</a>.</li>


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/747858">More Than a House</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/uofmdragon/pseuds/uofmdragon">uofmdragon</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to Celli for cheerleading and Misbegotten for betaing.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If you ask Phil, there are some things that should be sacred. Mint condition baseball cards. Classic convertible cars. A man's right to sleep past nine on a Sunday. Unfortunately, Phil's new neighbor doesn't agree.</p><p>There's the roar of a circular saw and the chugging noise of a generator coming from the old Carter place. There's an occasional thud of a hammer, and it's only 8am.</p><p>Phil frowns at the clock. He wouldn't normally leave the house in clothes he's slept in -- thin sweats and an old college t-shirt -- but these are extenuating circumstances.</p><p>He walks past the dilapidated picket fence out front, the garden beds left to grow weeds when Mrs Carter moved in with her son. He knocks on the front door and no one answers. When there's a break in the sound of sawing, Phil pounds on the door again.</p><p>This time, the door opens. "Yeah?"</p><p>"It's eight on a Sunday," Phil says because he's very good at multitasking. He can make a noise complaint and notice the bulging biceps of his new neighbor. The way his sleeveless shirt is a little too short for him, the two inches of muscled, sweaty abs showing above his low slung jeans. "The local regulations state no loud noises before seven on weekdays and nine on weekends."</p><p>His new neighbor runs a hand through his dirty blond hair, and his face falls into scowl. "You gonna call the cops on me?" He doesn't sound belligerent; more… dismayed.</p><p>"Not if you turn that generator off."</p><p>The guy shrugs. "Fine. Nine on weekends."</p><p>***</p><p>The guy keeps his word. The noise doesn't start up again until a quarter past nine, and by that time, Phil's already up and getting ready for church. He's not religious, per se. He doesn't have much faith in any specific higher power but he does believe in community and the importance of social networking, and in a small town that means church on Sundays.</p><p>He runs into the usual faces. The Brents sitting ramrod straight in the front row, with their three teens trying to sneak phones out of their pockets without getting caught. The family owns a few businesses in town and feel they have to set the standards around here. Phil nods a greeting at the Johnsons and the Eppes, and even manages one for the Stewarts on the left. But he can't help noticing Pete's bloodshot eyes, the way his wife is wearing long sleeves despite the heat and the way she won't meet anyone's eyes. It's common knowledge that Pete gets angry when he drinks, not that Phil can do anything other than make time to talk to Chrissy if she comes into the bank this week.</p><p>Phil slides into one of the pews on the right just as a car backfires in the lot. He's not surprised when Bruce hurries in a few minutes later, sitting in the row behind him.</p><p>"When are you going to stop pretending that pile of spare parts is a car?"</p><p>Bruce smiles sweetly, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Same time you stop pretending baseball cards are a sound financial investment."</p><p>"One of those will improve in value," Phil replies, turning as the pastor steps up to the pulpit, "and the other will break down and leave you stranded some day." </p><p>The sermon is as interesting as ever. It gives Phil a good half hour to think about his week and plan for anything that needs to be done. He usually spends the rest of his time watching his fellow parishioners, seeing who's paying attention and who's trying not to squirm or yawn. Today, his thoughts keep wandering back to the contractor from this morning: what his plans are for the Carter house and how long the work will take…</p><p>… and his thick biceps, his skin already smeared with dust and dirt…</p><p>Phil blinks and makes himself pay attention to the sermon.</p><p>***</p><p>Phil doesn't see the contractor during the next week. When Phil leaves for the bank in the mornings, it's quiet and peaceful next door. When he comes home after checking everyone's counts and locking the safe, the house is dark and silent. It's only the growing pile of rubbish outside -- wooden edges and old drywall and on Thursday, the bathtub and toilet -- that proves the work is continuing.</p><p>It makes the neighborhood look like a garbage dump but thankfully an empty dumpster gets delivered on Saturday. Phil hears the noise of the delivery truck backing up and goes outside to investigate.</p><p>The contractor is standing outside, directing the driver. (Phil really has to find out his name; calling him the contractor feels one step away from bad porn, like the poolboy or the pizza delivery guy.) In deference to the heat, he's wearing khaki shorts and a lavender wifebeater. Phil tries not to stare at his strong shoulders.</p><p>He fails, but he tries.</p><p>At least he manages a friendly wave when the guy looks over and spots Phil. There's a nod in reply, so Phil grabs his morning paper and heads inside before he looks too suspicious.</p><p>***</p><p>Every few weeks, Phil gets together with a few friends and they grill some steaks and have a few beers. This week, it's his place but Bucky's taken over the grill as usual. Steve and Bruce will help, but mostly they sit and talk over beers. Bucky will always stake out a spot at the edge of the group and watch the meat like he's waiting for a betrayal.</p><p>Bucky's been quiet ever since he got discharged and came to crash on Steve's couch. It's why Phil's surprised when Bucky stares at the grill and asks, "You gonna invite Clint over?"</p><p>"Who?"</p><p>"Clint." Bucky looks at him and then glances at the old Carter place. "Clint."</p><p>Huh. Clint the contractor. Still sounds like an intro to cheap porn. "Wasn't planning on it. You know him?"</p><p>Bucky shrugs. He looks down at the meat, his dark hair falling over his face. Phil looks to Steve for an explanation.</p><p>"They got to talking in the VA clinic," Steve says in that no-nonsense way that dares anyone else to make an issue of it. "Bonded over both being snipers once upon a time."</p><p>Bucky glares over his shoulder and gives Steve the bird. Steve just grins back at him.</p><p>"You want to invite him, go ahead," Phil says.</p><p>Bucky gives him a narrow eyed look and says, "Don't let them burn," and then strides back through the house.</p><p>***</p><p>"I've got to say," Bruce says quietly, leaning back in his chair, "it's weird seeing Bucky talk to someone who isn't Steve."</p><p>Phil shrugs but he doesn't disagree. This time, they're over at Steve's place and Bucky has spent the last twenty minutes standing over the grill, talking to Clint. He's even laughed.</p><p>Phil's used to Bucky being the scowling shadow hanging over Steve's shoulder, head tilted down and hiding behind his dark hair. Today, it's tied back into a short ponytail and Phil is facing the unfortunate realization that without the scowl and glare, Bucky's pretty damn attractive. Intense, but attractive.</p><p>It's clear that he gets on with Clint. There's a spark there, an easy connection between the two of them. Which is unfortunate for Phil because as summer's dragged on, Clint's started painting the outside of the house and cleaning up the yard. Sometimes he doesn't even wear a shirt. It's just glistening tanned skin and Phil forcing himself not to stare.</p><p>"I told you guys Bucky's a lot of fun," Steve says, reaching for another beer.</p><p>"You said it," Phil agrees evenly. Across the yard, Clint's telling Bucky a story, something that involves flailing hands and ends with an elbow to Bucky's side.  "Doesn't mean we believed you."</p><p>***</p><p>Phil can feel the wrench slipping in his grip. He leans over Lola's side, trying to get a better angle but it's futile. The metal wrench drops to the garage floor with a loud clang. Phil curses under his breath and pulls his arm back, standing up. He looks over to find Clint standing under the open garage door.</p><p>"Hey," Phil says, which is about all they usually say. Clint's been to a few barbecues but he mostly hangs out with Bucky or Steve. He might live next to Phil, but an occasional nod and hello is the extent of their conversations. Wiping his hands on a nearby rag, Phil pastes on a friendly smile. "Did you need something?"</p><p>"Not really." Clint digs his hands into his jeans pockets, his shoulders raised in a preemptive shrug. "But I heard you tinkering around in here and Bucky said I should come over and check it out."</p><p>Phil doesn't ask what Bucky's doing at Clint's place on a Sunday afternoon. Clint's new in town. Phil can't begrudge him making friends. Even friends that leave their motorbike parked in Clint's drive all Saturday night. Not that it's any of Phil's business. "You like classic cars?"</p><p>Clint strides forward, eyeing the cherry red curves of Lola's fender. "Doesn't everyone?" he asks, reaching out with gentle fingers.</p><p>"Don't touch Lola," Phil barks out of habit and Clint jerks his hand away.</p><p>Then he grins. "Lola? You named your car after the Copacabana girl?"</p><p>"Lola is a lady," Phil says firmly, even if she's the kind of showstopper that would fit right into Vegas in its heyday.</p><p>"Yeah, you're a classy lady, aren't you, baby?" Clint croons to the car.  He keeps his hands behind his back, though. "She's a beauty. You do all this work yourself?"</p><p>"It's a hobby."</p><p>"Well, you ever need any help…" Clint shrugs. "I went through a lot of odd jobs before I started flipping houses. I was a pretty good mechanic."</p><p>Phil eyes him up, wondering if he should believe that claim. If he could -- or should -- trust Lola to Clint's wide hands. "Really?"</p><p>"Not the computerised diagnosis stuff, but the old cars? I'm good with those."</p><p>Phil reaches under the car and retrieves his dropped wrench. "I'm trying to get to the ignition shielding but the bolts are being difficult." Resisting the urge to sigh, Phil holds out the wrench.</p><p>Clint's face breaks into a grin.  Before Phil can second guess his decision, Clint's leaning over her hood, one hand deep in her engine, the other tensed against the side for balance. Phil can see the strain in his arms as he reaches into the awkward space and forces the bolt to move. The tension across his broad back.</p><p>But when Clint goes up on his toes for more leverage, his jeans stretched tight across his thighs and ass, Phil realises he might have made a bad call. "Tell me about yourself," Phil says, walking around to the other side of Lola and reminding himself that no matter what Clint looks like, Bucky's bike was there all night.</p><p>"Not much to tell," Clint says, passing a freed bolt to Phil. "Grew up in Iowa. Doesn't get more interesting after that."</p><p>"Tell me anyway," Phil says. "Bore me."</p><p>Clint snorts. "Army, odd jobs, then flipping houses. Ain't much to tell."</p><p>"Then make something up," Phil says and this time, he gets an actual laugh. Clint spins a tall tale of running away with the circus and falling in love with a sword-swallower. It's not until Clint looks up and smirks that Phil realises the double entendres are all on purpose.</p><p>***</p><p>Phil tries not to think about how much Bucky and Clint are hanging out. It's hard to ignore Bucky's black bike parked out the front of Clint's place -- at six in the morning, far too early to have come over for breakfast -- but Phil does his best. He nods when Steve mentions it's nice to get his living room back and even manages to open his door with a smile when Clint knocks on his door on Saturday morning.</p><p>"This might be a stupid question but do neighbors actually borrow cups of sugar from each other?" Clint asks, rubbing the back of his head like an embarrassed kid. "Because Bucky just mentioned that it's his birthday today and birthdays need cake and I don't have sugar. Or flour. Or a cake pan."</p><p>Phil raises an eyebrow. "Anything else?"</p><p>"I don't think I've ever made a cake before, so… a cookbook could help too."</p><p>"Or you could go to the store and buy him a cake," Phil suggests calmly.</p><p>Clints face scrunches up,  concerned lines forming at the corners of his eyes. "He said it was his first birthday since getting discharged and he doesn't have family nearby to spend it with. I wouldn't have even known if Steve hadn't mentioned it when he picked Bucky up to go running."</p><p>"So you want to bake your boyfriend a cake," Phil says, already sure he'll regret his next words. "You might as well cook it here. Come in."</p><p>"Really?" Clint asks, bouncing on his heels in excitement. "Thanks."</p><p>Phil turns the oven on to preheat and pulls a baking cookbook down from the top shelf. "Pick something easy," he says, pulling out flour and sugar, butter and eggs.</p><p>Clint finds a chocolate cake recipe so Phil gets the cocoa down too. They measure and mix, and once the cake's cooking, Clint insists on washing the bowls. Phil lets him because it's his kitchen and his ingredients, and he shouldn't have to do cleanup too.</p><p>"Earlier, you said boyfriend," Clint says cautiously, not looking away from the soapy bowl in his hand.</p><p>Phil hums in acknowledgement, because he doesn't want to say they are both very attractive men and thinking about the two of them makes Phil feel old and dull. He's not that much older than them, but he's old enough to know not to get involved with a friend's girlfriend. Or boyfriend, as the case may be.</p><p>"Bucky and I aren't--"</p><p>"You don't have to explain anything to me," Phil interrupts because he doesn't want to hear any details. Ever. He has no intention of acknowledging his own teeth-gritting jealousy.</p><p>"He's renting the spare room," Clint says quickly. "I was thinking about sticking around but I'd need help covering the mortgage and Bucky said it'd be nice to have a bedroom door again instead of staying on Steve's couch, so… Spare room."</p><p>Phil takes the dry bowl from Clint's outstretched hand. "Okay," he says because he doesn't know what else to say.</p><p>"Discharge is weird, man. Suddenly you've got all these things you've been missing for months and you start getting nostalgic about stuff you hated, and Bucky's cool but he's not… I'm not interested in <i>him</i>."</p><p>Phil finds himself staring at Clint's hands, at the way his fists keep clenching even as his  voice stays steady. It's instinct to reach out and curve his fingers around Clint's wrists, to hold on until he relaxes. "Not him, huh?"</p><p>When he looks up, Clint's wearing the cockiest grin Phil's ever seen. It's a joyful challenge that Phil meets with a kiss, soft and intentional. Clint hums into it, and kisses him back. After a second kiss and a third, Clint leans back to grin again. "Really? I've been doing yard work shirtless and it took baking to get your attention?"</p><p>"No," Phil says, and leans in for another kiss. And another. "You had my attention."</p><p>If Bucky's cake ends up a little browned on the edges because Phil has Clint pressed against the pantry door, it's nothing that can't be covered by frosting.</p><p>***</p><p>"You know," Clint says, sprawled across the wooden deck with a bottle of beer between his fingers while Steve and Bruce argue something about baseball, "your place could really do with a repaint."</p><p>"You only finished your place last week." Phil raises an eyebrow at him. "You can't be bored already."</p><p>"I have some extra time. I'm used to being busy."</p><p>Phil considers arguing that his place is fine but even he can see spots where the paint is peeling. "Fine. But I'm only helping on weekends. And you're coming to church on Sunday."</p><p>Clint gives him a satisfied smile. "For a six pack, we can probably bribe Bucky into helping too."</p>
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